Adventures of Bob the Dog - Witness Protection program

You are not going to believe this. Oh, wait, if you have kept up with Bob the Dog over the months, of course you will believe it. What am I thinking?  If you don't know what I'm talking about when I mention Bob the Dog, you need to go back to the very beginning - all the way back to here. And as you read about Bob and his escapades, there is one important thing to keep in mind. This is NOT my dog!

A couple of weeks ago, I stopped at Torchy's Tacos on Burnet Road for lunch, as I often do after a session at the recording studio. I ordered the #3 plate and sat down at an inside table to wait for my order. I'm chowing down on the chips and salsa when I hear a "Pssst!"  I look around the room, but I don't see anyone trying to get my attention.

    "Pssst! Turn around slowly mate!"
I knew that voice. Oh, did I know that that voice. I looked behind me - and still nothing.
    "Crikey, mate. I said slowly!"
And there he was, peeking out through the food pass-through window. Bob the dog, complete with apron and hair net.
    "Don't say anything. Come to the back door when you are done. Tap out "shave and a hair cut" and I'll open the door."
Shave and a...? Oh, I get it, the secret knock. I started to say something, but by then Bob was nowhere in sight.

I ate my taco, but I really didn't enjoy it. I was really wondering what in the world Bob was up to now, and why so mysterious. I finished and walked outside and around the building. There was the usual "No Deliveries between..." sign on the door, but I knocked anyway. And yes, I did the "shave and a hair cut" knock. Immediately the door opened and Bob grabbed me, pulled me inside and pushed me into a broom closet, partially closing the door. He peered out through the narrow crack and then closed it altogether.

    "Bob, you want to tell me what's going on?" I asked.
    "No time for that, mate. I only have a tock or two, then it's back to work."
    "Okay, Bob I understand that you're busy. Come by the house when you get off, or I'll meet you some where," I said.
    "Not a bloody chance, mate. They are going to move me tonight; that's the only reason I spoke up. I'll be gone tomorrow."
    "Who are 'they', and what do you mean they're going to move you?"
    "Witness Protection. Only they call it Witness Security now."
    "You're in a Witness Protection Program??"
    "Shhh! Not so bloody loud! Yes, I'm in a WitSec program. There are some very nasty blokes after me hide and I'm laying low."

I just looked at him, and he went on to explain that when he had his little "dust-up" with the TSA in Los Angeles he got out of that jam by trading information about drugs stashed in the baggage area at LAX for his freedom. Turns out that while he was "burrowed in the bags" he saw way too much and part of the deal was that they had to keep him hidden until they could arrest and jail those involved.
    "I thought you smelled out those drugs, like a drug sniffing... well, you know, dog."
    "Crikey! After Nashville, I couldn't smell a poesy if it was shoved up me nose."
I decided to let that one go. He said that he hoped this would all be over in a couple of months, and he would get in touch "when this barney was over" and just like that I was out the door. But that's not the whole story.

I stopped at Torchy's this past Wednesday and Bob was nowhere in sight. I casually asked the girl at the counter about him and she gave me this very funny look and said, "No one named Bob works here, or ever has in the past." Turns out stopping and asking about Bob might not have been the thing to do. After I left, in just a few blocks a black Suburban with tinted windows pulled up way too close behind me and stayed there.

Now, I admit that I read a lot of crime and mystery novels and in those stories the super-secret government agents always drive the black Suburbans, but seriously? Isn't this a bit much? It did make me nervous, though, so when I got off the Interstate I pulled into the Valero gas station - a nice, crowded, busy place - and the Suburban pulled in right behind me. I'm thinking, Okay, I know what happens next. A couple of ex-military looking tough guys in dark suits and dark glasses are going to get out and brace me right here, only what happens is a skinny guy in a rumpled polyester suit, who looks like Howdy Doody gets out and says, "Excuse me, Sir. Uh, sorry to bother, but can I ask, uh, a couple of questions?"

This little guy looks like anything but threatening, so I say, "Sure. How can I help you?" He comes over and the guy is really, really nervous. There's sweat on his forehead and his eyes are doing some kind of boogaloo, looking all around. He fumbles around and pulls out a wallet with a badge and a picture ID and says, "I'm Smith with the US Marshal Service, and I need to, uh - I need to, well, uh, I need to ask why you were inquiring about Mr. Sirius."

This throws me and I say, "Asking about who?" And he says, "Mr. Sirius; Robert Sirius. Back at, uh, back at Torchy's." I get it! Bob Dog; Robert Sirius! So I say, "You mean Bob the Dog," and this guy has a heart attack, right there!
    "Please! No names! I mean, no Bob names- I mean, uh, not that name!" and he's looking all around us like there's a bad guy behind every gas pump. Then he leans in very close and says, "Do you know where Bob, uh, Mr. Sirius is? We were supposed to pick him up, uh, I mean, meet him last week but he wasn't there. He's gone, and uh, we, uh, uh..." and he stopped talking out loud but his lips kept opening and closing.
    "You mean you've lost your witness?" I said, and Mr Smith just cringed.
    "Please," he said. "Did he mention anything about where he was going? You haven't seen him since have you?" he asked hopefully.
    "You did! You lost Bob!" And after that Mr. Smith didn't want to talk to me any more. Before he left, I assured him that I did not know where Bob was, and yes, I would be sure to let him know if I heard from Bob.

But I had my fingers crossed when I said that.